


Good Morning

by Everlind



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Angst, Humor, M/M, Mentions of Cancer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-02
Updated: 2015-09-02
Packaged: 2018-04-18 17:13:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,308
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4713977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Everlind/pseuds/Everlind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Good morning!”</p><p>“No, no it’s not a good morning, you failure magnet. It’s a fucking awful morning alright? So just re-ingest your lukewarm pleasantries and tenderly inject them up your anus. Who the hell even greets random strangers on the street these days? Did you fall out of a eighties sitcom?”</p><p>There. That’ll shut him up.</p><p>…only it doesn’t.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Good Morning

“Good morning!”

It takes you another two steps before you realize it was addressed to you. You stop, frown, and turn to see a lanky guy in an eye-searing blue hoodie grinning at you. “…what?”

His expression falters into amused confusion. Blinks before trying again. “Good morning?”

Seriously, is this douchebag for real? No, no fuck this, you’re not letting some chipper polehumper trot his happy-go-lucky attitude over the wreckage that is your life. That is  _your_  wreckage thankyouverymuch; it is off-limits for inappropriately affable wunderwursts.

And what a wreckage it is. Waking up exhausted with a screaming ache in your back and some asshole bird screaming unholy salutations to the sun right outside your goddamn window and then your darling mongrel of a meowbeast had puked up the overpriced gourmet meat in gravy all over your shoes in a moist display of gratitude and left you screaming with impotent ire.

Your  _only_  pair of shoes.

So really, you are perfectly content quivering through the seismic aftershocks of your nine-point-zero ragequake just fine, you don’t need some overly friendly pillock telling you otherwise.

“No,  _no_  it’s not a good morning, you failure magnet. It’s a fucking awful morning alright? So just re-ingest your lukewarm pleasantries and tenderly inject them up your waste chute. Who the hell even greets random strangers on the street these days? Did you fall out of a eighties sitcom?”

There. That’ll shut him up.

…only it doesn’t.

For some bizarre reason he seems utterly delighted by your reaction. “Wow, well excuse me for trying to be  _nice_ , you asshole. I hope you have an terrible morning then!” you’re informed with obvious cheer.

You consider punching his grin down his gullet. “It already is fucking terrible, and you just keep adding to it with the wet rag you call a personality.”

“Good!” he says, smiling. “Have a fucking super extra terrible day then!”

“I fucking will!”

“Good.”

“Fine!”

“Bye!”

“Bye- wait, no—argh,” you didn’t mean to say bye back, goddammit, you really didn’t, it’s a fucking reflex! Of course the fucker heard and now he’s chuckling about it as he skips off in the opposite direction.

Wow.  _Wow_. Holy shit, you decide you hate that guy right there and then. What a jerk. He’s terrible. Whoever he is. You don’t think you’ve seen him before, you’d have remembered blue eyes like those.

What a jerk.

Wow.

*

The next time you see him it’s raining. He’s got an umbrella. You don’t.

Seriously, you woke up at the poorly wiped asscrack of dawn with another delightful backache, which still hasn’t abated two hours later and now you’re soaking wet through, and the fucking asshole has a goddamn umbrella.

God, you hate this guy so so  _so much_.

Water trickles down your neck, gets soaked up by the neckline of your shirt and glues itself against your skin cold and wet. You refuse to shiver, so you grit your fangs as he approaches, head ducked down and his dark hair tugging into any which direction by the wind. He doesn’t see you, is just hurrying along all nice and dry under that goddamn umbrella of his.

The umbrella that has bunny ears.

How is that a thing? Which cosmic clod fucking endorsed this anthropomorphic disgrace of water repellant nylon? Seriously, someone should fire that guy. (Even worse? Who even fucking wastes perfectly good money on this senseless swill? Ding ding ding, that’s right! This fucking asshole.)

But then, as he rushes past, his eyes suddenly find yours dead-on. He grins. “Nice weather we’re having, huh?”

Yeah, okay, you admit it, you freshwater carp at him. Totally didn’t see it coming, but it’s there, a flash of a smirk, because he doesn’t even deign to stop, just keeps walking with his cheeks bunching around his petty little victory.

“Fuck you!” you shriek at his retreating back.

“Buy me dinner first!” he yells back.

You nearly choke on your rage, which isn’t fucking helped by the unwelcome wash of heat in your face that leaves you tonguetied. It’s enough he makes it around the corner before you can think of an aptly cutting retort. ( _You couldn’t afford me!_  No, wait, this still implies you can be bought. You’re priceless, okay? A national motherfucking treasure. The Declaration of Independence. It’s you. Clearly. Fuck.)

Next time. You’re going to get him so good next time.

You walk on, completely forgetting about the pain or the rain or why today is obviously yet another godawful waste. Too busy thinking of scathing comebacks. Next time. Won’t know what hit him. Bah.

*

You’ve missed your bus.

The rock hard bucket seat at the shelter is not helping your immense discomfort (and yeah, you should probably go see a doctor about that or whatever).

At least it’s not raining. For once.

You’ve got nothing better to do but stare at the faded catvomit stains on your sneakers while reflecting upon all your poor life choices. Lucky for you you’ve got two decades worth of those. Endless entertainment just a thought away.

Fucking yay.

It’s just as you’re squinting at the stain and wondering whether it genuinely resembles Troll Michelangelo’s The Creation of Aadamn that HE passes by.

Or rather he’s already there staring at you.

Your heart flutters itself into your throat as your head comes up with a jerk. “What’s with the vacuous ogling? Am I wearing something of yours?”

His mouth kicks up at the corner. “Please, I got better taste than that.”

This, when he’s wearing a sleeveless tank top with  _I flexed and the sleeves fell off_ across the front written in comic sans. (Okay, so yeah, the world’s first sentient puspillar does happen to have rather impressive shoulders, you got eyes, you can see it’s totally a thing, but it. does. NOT. excuse. the. motherfucking. shirt.)

“That’s just mean,” you say flatly, arching an eyebrow at his shirt. “That hurts, right here.” You pat your chest.

He just goes pffff! and then pfffft! again, flapping his hand like you’re a mildly amusing flybug buzzing lukewarm witticisms into his earducts.  

Doesn’t leave, however. Stands there instead. Smiling at you.

God. Why. You haven’t even had your morning coffee yet, surely this falls under cruel and unusual punishment. “Look,” you sigh, “if I throw a stick, will you just fucking leave already?”

He considers. “Man, I don’t know. Is it the stick from up your ass?”

This fuCK _ING_ — okay. Breathe. Count to ten. Hmrgrrrr. Count to twenty. Better.

“I realize you’re suffering from a severe lack of attention, but seriously, I don’t have time for you. Go away. Shoo. Amscray. Begone. Vete!”

“Fine,” he says. “Be that way. Guess you don’t want a lift then?”

You peer at the street. There’s only a bicycle propped against a lamppost. A very old, sad looking bicycle with handlebar streamers. “Please tell me you’re not referring to that rusty contraptions on wheels.”

“You could sit on the luggage rack!” he offers.

You give him a long, pitying (platonic!) look. “You’re the reason the gene pool needs a lifeguard.”

Big frown. “Yeah, well, the jerk store just called, they’re running out of you!” he grabs his bike and leaves, but not before sticking his tongue out at you.

Rude.

*

You’re waiting for him the next day.

Not like waiting  _waiting_ , of course. Please. You got better shit to do than hopefully await the arrival of a backbiting bulgenibbler. Like standing here waiting for your bus.

The possible convergence of his presumably work-bound trajectory with yours is merely a perk. One you’re totally indifferent to! It’s not like you’ve left your shoddy hivestem earlier so you wouldn’t miss him or anything, no, you didn’t want to risk missing your bus again.

Obviously.

(no really that sucked, you were late for work)

As soon as he comes pedalling down the street you leap to intercept him. Brakes shriek in protest while the bike swerves to an erratic halt. He’s wide-eyed as you slap your hands over his on the handlebar.

“I could devour a hemisphere dish of alphabet-shaped wheat flour enriched nutritional broth and shit out a better argument than that!” you snarl into his face.

Pause.

Blink. Blink blink.

“Hey there!” he says, and “What?”

“C’MON,” you seethe. “That was both crafty and droll! Although probably too advanced for you. I’ll try for smaller words next time. Maybe some crayons, too, how about that?”

“…are you offering to draw me?”

And, because you’re an idiot, you reply: “You’re cute but not  _that_  cute.”

Wait.

The other guy’s lips part into a toothy grin, but it’s not  _quite_  smug, no there’s an almost timid tilt to it. “You think I’m cute?”

“UH,” you go, and become aware of his warm fingers under yours, the rough bumps of his knuckles tucked against the furrows of your palm. Your scoffed, “Prrrrffrshht  _of course not!!_ ” comes out both too late and too loud. You snatch your hands back almost guiltily.

Also you’re blushing. Great.

There’s nothing to be blushing about, he looks like a total tool with those hipster glasses. You’re pretty sure he forgot to brush his hair and he’s wearing another godawful shirt. This one says:  _blink if you want me_. Like hell! You’re never going to blink again, see how he likes that! HAH.

Fuck. Your eyes begin to water.

“My name’s John,” he says, apropos of nothing. Still smiling, but he’s ducking his head, eyes darting away when you study his face.

“That’s nice,” you mutter, rubbing your palms along your sweater to rid them of his warmth.

He’s still smiling though. Pats the luggage rack on his bike invitingly. “Need a lift?”

“No, I—“ fuck why did you say that you could’ve lied said you missed your bus again and sat behind him and find out what he smells like wait that’s so creepy fuck fuck “it’s. Fine.” Fuck. Stupid. What’s wrong with you? (everything)

Too late. He’s shifting his bike, foot to the pedal. “Same time same place tomorrow then?” he asks. The wink he gives you is conspiratorial, a secret joke between you and him.

You still can’t seem to meet his eyes. It’s… been a while you’ve been flirted with? You think? Is that’s what’s happening? You’re not sure, because it’s been so long since anybody fucking bothered to actively flirt with you. And. Well, you kind of hope he is. Humans are a hopeless tangle of mixed signals, but he keeps looking at you and _smiling_  and that definitely means he at least likes you.

“Sure,” you mumble, stepping aside.

The sleeve of his shirt sweeps against your shoulder as he hops on and pedals away, streamers fluttering. What an idiot.

You’re totally not smiling. Nope. And the only reason you’re in a good mood is because your back doesn’t hurt quite as much today.

That’s all.

Really.

*

There’s no same time same place tomorrow. Nor the day after. Or the day after that one.

You wake up in pain, and you suspect the only reason it was absent was because it was birthing out a wrathful flock of woodpeckers, all of which decided to pay your spine a visit today. You have to call in sick. You have to go see a doctor.

The doctor refers you to a specialised troll doctor, but only after a thoroughly painstaking routine of poking and kneading you like a miserable life-size clod of silly putty -and charging you for it to the fucking boot.

The troll doctor peppers your grisly husk with suckerworms. You walk out looking like you’ve been mauled by an amorous detritus absorber and yet another referral.

The hospital is worse than both doctors combined, but they find out what’s wrong with you.

They tell you.

You’re sitting in the bus shelter in the middle of the afternoon feeling curiously numb.

It’s barely a ten minute walk home and there’s hardly any pain because you’ve been given a painkiller, yet you can’t find it in yourself to get up.

“There you are!”

It’s John of course.

“Dude, seriously, I was worried I said something wrong when you we— hey,” his expression freezes. “Dude. Are you okay?”

Are you okay? You’re not sure. So you shrug and tell him what the doctors told you. Shrug again. He blinks and the last of his smile melts away into hollow-eyed alarm.

His little “oh,” comes out all squashed and trampled.

You start crying.

You don’t want to, you really don’t want to, but it’s this sudden big wet mess on your face and noises coming from your shuddering mouth and on top of everything you find out it’s still somehow possible to feel humiliated. You’re sobbing hard enough he’s reduced to a blurred outline, and whatever, for once it can’t possibly get any worse so you tuck your chin against your chest to hide the mucosal outbreak on your face, and give up and cry like a frightened wriggler.

And then John’s there, an arm comes around your shoulders and pulls you against his side. Your heart goes thick and heavy and stupid.

There’s no “it’ll be okay,” or “don’t worry,” but he’s shushing you and rubbing your arm and radiating pity like a seasoned quadrant hijacker and you just don’t have it in you to push him away.

“I’m - I’m -mmmnot in a state to embark on -on a—a romantic affair here,” you snarl.

He actually scoffs, the utter shitsack. “Du’h, but you look like you could use a friend.”

And yeah. Yeah. You could, you really fucking could, and then his fingers drag into the hair at your nape, soothing, and it’s so easy to turn your face into his shoulder and soak his shirt with tears.

 

Your name is Karkat Vantas and you just found out you have cancer.

**Author's Note:**

> Rough outline for what might happen after [on my tumblr](http://everlind.tumblr.com/post/128199556418).
> 
> RUSSIAN TRANSLATION BY Lionalia_Shtolts [HERE](https://ficbook.net/readfic/4131498)!


End file.
